


Your Voice; My Prayer

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Human Castiel, M/M, Post Season/Series 08, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's mind was once filled with the chorus of angels and the whispers of Dean's prayers. Now, in the human silence in the dead of night, his friend reaches out to him and tries to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Voice; My Prayer

It’s the third night in a row he has had trouble sleeping. And until Dean Winchester shows up in his doorway, he thinks he has been hiding this rather well. But it’s three o’clock in the morning and Dean is standing in the threshold, rubbing sleep from his eyes and mumbling softly, “Bad dreams again?”

Castiel sits up and looks at him. There is a vague film of sweat on Castiel’s brow, and he’s shaking slightly. He knows he cried out. “I’m sorry to wake you, Dean.”

Dean simply shrugs and asks again, “Did you have a bad dream?”

Castiel sighs and tucks his legs under him. “Only if I’m lucky…”

“Can’t sleep?”

“The silence,” Castiel shakes his head. “It’s… it’s a  _blanket_. It’s smothering.”

“You can put on the radio, you know. There’s one right there.” Dean points over to the corner nonchalantly.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what do you mean?”

“I mean, the silence here,” Castiel gestures. “The silence in my  _head_.”

Dean suddenly leans his head back. His lips part just slightly, and a self-conscious look crosses his features.

“I don’t hear them, Dean. My brothers, my sisters. We don’t exist anymore. I don’t hear them, I don’t…” Castiel pauses and takes a breath, hesitating. “I don’t hear you…”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Your prayers.” Castiel blushes slightly. “I had grown accustomed to them.”

Dean shifts in the doorway, uncomfortable. “Yeah, well. Purgatory’s still affecting us all, I guess.”

Cas says nothing. Yes, Dean prayed to him every night in Purgatory. But there were prayers before then, nights where Dean spoke in the same theme, sometimes coupled with a small variant or an anecdote here or there. _Where are you, Cas? We need you. Are you ok? Sammy did the stupidest thing today…_  Where are you?

Dean was always searching.

Even when Castiel sunk into the lake, when he had been torn apart by his sins and Dean had got so blindingly drunk to take away his pain, Dean would  _still_  pray. Emmanuel didn’t know this, but how could he? He couldn’t tap into his unconscious that was calling out in response. He couldn’t fathom the man who appeared in his dreams without a face or name. The same man that, six months later, showed up on his doorstep asking for help. It was Dean, of course. Always Dean. His prayers mattered, his words toyed around in Castiel’s head, appearing whenever Castiel had a spare moment, a spare second of time wherein he could stretch into the infinite, listening again to the rumble of Dean’s voice saying,  _Cas… hey Cas… Cas, where are you?_

“Well,” Dean says finally, then “well,” he says again. And then nothing. He suddenly crosses from the doorway to sit on the bed, folding one leg up and facing Castiel. “What can I do to make this better?”

Such a question. Such a moving question, and Castiel is almost better just by having heard it asked. He tilts his head with a soft smile. “Nothing, Dean.”

“Would a TV help? I could move a TV in here.”

“I don’t think so, Dean.”

“Well then, maybe I could talk at you? And you could just zone out, or something, until you fall asleep?”

“Dean, there’s really nothing you can do. I just have to get used to this, that’s all. This… being human. I’m afraid it’s not easy.”

There is a long pause that Castiel eventually breaks. “You should go back to bed, Dean, I won’t wake you again, I promise.”

Dean frowns absently, and then suddenly swings his other leg onto the bed and turns more fully to Castiel. He closes his eyes, and then he reaches out to take Castiel’s hands.

Dean’s palms are rough, calloused, and warm. He’s like the oven he has to keep shoving Castiel away from, removing him from the temptation of whatever it is Dean is cooking that smells so wonderful. Smell and taste—such marvelous things, things that did not feature with quite the same intensity when he was an angel. And now Dean’s hands in his… Castiel knows that touch is an equally powerful human sense, but it has never before felt so valuable. Has Dean always been this warm, or has Castiel himself never been cold enough to truly feel it?

“Dear Castiel—” Dean clears his throat, then starts again. “Castiel…”

Castiel snatches his hands away quickly. “Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean opens one eye angrily. “I’m praying to you, you idiot.”

“Oh.” Castiel pauses, then slides his fingers slowly back against Dean’s. Dean looks as though he is about to begin again, when Castiel interrupts him. “You never started prayers that way.”

Dean huffs. “Well then, how  _did_  I start them?”

“It was always something more like,  _Cas, you got your ears on?_  Or,  _Cas, get your ass down here now!_ ” And Dean can’t help but quirk a grin at the impersonation of his voice.

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Have your ears on?”

Castiel prepares himself, settling back slightly as he says softly, “Yes.”

“Ok, good. Now shut up and let me get this over with.”

There is a very long moment where Dean is perfectly still, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, and his tongue flicking gently against his lips. And then he says, with an almost perfect believability, “Cas, you got your ears on?”

Castiel nods reflexively. He shuts his eyes and feels Dean’s hands in his, feels how their fingertips align together, slide together, then lace together, as if on their own.

“I’ve got a favor to ask you, Cas.”

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but remembers not to and quickly shuts it again.

“I’ve got this friend, and I think he needs your help. See, he’s, uh… He’s been going through a major change lately, and uh…”

Castiel starts to blush. He opens his eyes carefully and looks down at their hands, feeling the slow smile creep across his features. His heart glows, and when Dean continues, he shuts his eyes again.

“I’m not sure he’s doing so great with it. I mean, he’s doing better than he thinks he is, but… anyway, look, I know you’re busy, but it would be really great if you could lend him a hand. He’s a really, really great guy. I mean, he’s actually kind of annoying—he drives me up the wall most days—”

Castiel bows his head, feeling his smile grow bigger.

“—Anyway. I care about him, ok? A lot. He’s family. And it makes me sad to think that I can’t make this better for him, so… if you could help out, that would be great.”

Dean stops, and Castiel opens his eyes again. He stares at Dean’s downturned face, at the small line of intensity between his brows, at his lips frowning beautifully in thought and sincerity.

“Oh,” Dean quirks a brow. “And keep an eye on Sammy while you’re at it, okay?”

Castiel cannot stop himself. He squeezes their hands, fingers digging hard, holding tight. “I will, Dean.”

Dean opens his eyes very quickly, staring across the small space between them. “Only if you promise to look after yourself too, Cas.”

“I promise.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. Me too.”

“Ok then.”

“Ok.”

Dean pauses. “I’m gonna stop praying now.”

“Ok.”

There is a long moment before both of them burst into self-conscious giggles, sliding their hands away from each other. Castiel tries not to dwell on the intoxicating sound of Dean’s skin against his own. There is so much to hear when Dean is near. Smile still broad on his face, Castiel leans forward gently. “Thank you, Dean.”

“You’re welcome.”

And Castiel reaches out, sliding his fingers across Dean’s face and neck, his thumb coming to rest on the elegant curve of Dean’s cheekbone, his palms itching against the stubble of Dean’s jaw. Castiel’s hands could heal everything once—he could once heal Dean, knitting each broken piece back together. And maybe Castiel still can. But it seems that Dean is the one doing all the healing now. Every last bit of his warmth, bravado, and heart is put into his family. His little family, pieced together from the endless wreckage. God, Castiel is so happy to be a part of it.

His eyes are dancing across Dean’s face. He catches the subtle tint of Dean’s skin as he turns gently pink, sees the embarrassed blinks at their closeness, and Castiel knows he should be embarrassed too—but he isn’t. And he knows he should let go of Dean and let him go back to bed, but Castiel doesn’t do that either. He keeps his hand to Dean’s cheek and is suddenly rewarded when he feels Dean’s fingers against his own, pressing them closely together. Slowly, Dean twists his head, almost imperceptibly, and Castiel gasps to feel the gentle kiss of Dean’s lips against his palm.

Time stops.

And then Dean drops their hands, stands up, and is at the door before Castiel can even react. React to the fire flooding from his hand, to his heart, to his groin, to the sudden thundering in his stomach.

“Sleep well, Cas,” Dean says, and then he’s gone.

Castiel blinks after him. He does not, in fact, sleep well that night, but this time it is for completely different reasons.


End file.
